


Red

by CanisMajor1234



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Boys In Love, Canon-Typical Violence, I don't know why I wrote this, M/M, a v short smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:33:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5497199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanisMajor1234/pseuds/CanisMajor1234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courier Six is a dangerous thing, all sharp edges and flaming red hair. He's fierce and ruthless and Vulpes cannot help but wonder what made him this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I wrote this. I really don't.  
> Warnings: Canon-typical Violence, boys in love, short smut.  
> Word Count: 6,083

Courier Six is a dangerous thing, all sharp edges and flaming red hair. He walks into Nipton as though he hasn’t a care in the world. His black mercenary armor gleams in the harsh light of the sun, gleams like the scuffed-silver of his rifle but in a darker way. He looks like a shadow among the burning and crucified bodies, he and a strange, tamed, silver coyote moving around each other as they search for survivors.

He looks beautiful, scarf caught in the wind, eyes narrowed dangerously. Vulpes watches as this Courier Six, this “Red”, leans up on his toes to close the eyes of a Powder Ganger dead on the cross. Strange. The reports had said him hostile towards the Powder Gangers. Perhaps they had been wrong. Perhaps this “Red” simply had respect for all life, as filthy and corrupted as it could be, and regretted when it was spent like this. Vulpes has no such regret; these were but weeds growing where Caesar could cultivate flowers.

When Courier Six turns his brilliant eyes on Vulpes, he realizes why they call him “Red”. It’s not the flaming red hair that earned him that name, but the vibrancy of those eyes, blazing like the flames of purification. Vulpes notes the faintest of glows as Courier Six draws nearer, feels his skin crawl at the sheer amount of radiation it might have taken to make his eyes like that. How corrupted a flower Red would have to be to possess such an enchanting gaze. It is as though he was no longer something human.

Perhaps that is why Caesar was so insistent that Vulpes bring him to the Legion.

“Even animals are treated better in death then you have treated these people,” Red says, low and intense, his eyes locking with Vulpes’s as though he is trying to look through to the man’s soul. The Legionnaire recruits have been disciplined, of course, but Vulpes hears them all take a wary step back nonetheless. He does not blame them; there is something dangerous in Courier Six’s eyes, something that would put the fear into the strongest of hearts. There is something in that voice that makes people _listen_. “At least an animal’s death will mean something. What do these deaths mean, _frumentarius_? Tell me that.”

When Vulpes takes a step forward, the coyote growls, and Red hushes it with a simple motion. Strange, how such a wild thing could be tamed so easily. Another step, and the coyote takes a step towards Vulpes as well, as though the small thing could take down a man such as he.

“Tell me, Courier, what would this coyote’s death mean?” Vulpes asks, gesturing to the beast at Red’s side. Red crouches, gun drawn now, hand on the coyote’s flank. There’s a coldness in his eyes, a wildness that is only barely contained. “Would it mean any more than the deaths of these savages? They died like the dogs they are.”

“All dogs go to Heaven,” Red says, smiling like it’s some kind of joke as he rises to his feet. The coyote begins pacing circles around him, its bright white eyes never leaving Vulpes. Like master like dog, the beast must be irradiated as well.

Red stares at Vulpes for a long moment, measuring him up. The rifle in his hands is steady, and Vulpes is more than ready for the moment it begins to rise to fire a shot. The hilt under his hand is sturdy, the blade more than sufficient a weapon for Vulpes to bring Red to heel. He wonders, idly, what it might be like to see those eyes broken.

The shot never comes. Red whistles for the coyote and they turn together, leaving their backs open to the Legion. Vulpes is tempted to stop them. It would not take much- a hand on the shoulder, perhaps, or maybe nothing more than a step forward. He doesn’t, though. There is something about the way Red’s silhouette is framed by the burning of the bodies that makes him seem like something summoned forth from Hell itself.

Vulpes lets him walk.

He does not let him go.

It’s aggravatingly difficult, following Red through the mountains. The Vipers seem to be waiting at every turn, and it takes everything Vulpes has not to jump to Red’s aide every time an explosion goes off too close to the courier. Red does not seem bothered by the flying shrapnel and bullets; he is deadly calm, deadly accurate, making every bullet its own kill.

The coyote dies not long after Red leaves Nipton, much to Vulpes’s relief. The beast might have sniffed him out otherwise. Red pauses on the road long enough to sing a funeral dirge in Vulpes’s own tongue, placing a Broc flower on the body as homage. It’s strange to hear such words fall from the courier’s lips, but there is no hesitation, no roughness. It does not even have the false edge of words rehearsed. It is as though Red truly knows the language. It is unsettling.

Vulpes does not give up. He has to change in Novac, has to stash his armor where he knows it will be found by others of the Legion and garb himself in the clothes of the common folk, but it is worth it to see better how Red interacts with the people. Vulpes has to wait a few hours before entering the city, so not to seem suspicious, and he arrives just in time to see Red chatting up the sniper in front of a motel room. The smile on his face is alluring, his voice clearly made of silver because, even though Vulpes cannot hear the conversation, the sheer pleasure in Red’s eyes tells him that the exchange is going in his favor.

Red stays around Novac for a couple of days. He goes back and forth across the area- to the rocket facility, then to the junkyard, then to an area so irradiated it makes Vulpes’s skin crawl just standing downwind. He cannot follow Red everywhere without drawing suspicion, of course, not when he has presented himself as a trader who’d been attacked on the way through Nipton, but he hears enough to make up for the times he cannot watch Courier Six. The civilians begin to speak highly of Red, while the gangs have their own name for him: _The Reaper_.

They bump into each other once- an accident on Red’s part, entirely planned on Vulpes’s. It is clear by the sincere but dismissive way that Red apologizes that he does not recognize Vulpes like this. That is no surprise, but Vulpes had to be sure: out of his Legion armor, Vulpes could be anyone and everyone, but there is no losing the dangerous edge that follows a man, and that edge could be what gives him away.

In such a short interaction, however, Red does not seem to notice, so Vulpes goes about his business.

From Novac, Red’s next stop is Boulder City. Vulpes cannot follow as he wishes he can: there are reports to be given to the Caesar and greater missions to complete. He stays in Novac for one more night, just as Red does.

It is his mistake. Coming out of a motel room, Red bumps into him. Vulpes reaches out to steady the courier by the back of the neck as he would do any other slave or recruit that stumbled, and Red pauses. Dark eyes meet red ones that glow in the night. Recognition sparks amidst anger, and Red starts to push away.

“Don’t make a scene,” Vulpes warns. It is dark out, and there are not many people wandering the streets of the town, but a confrontation here could get them both thrown out. Red stiffens, and Vulpes has to resist the urge to dip his hand beneath that scarf, just to feel what is beneath. It’s clear that Red is trying to hide something: even out of his armor, in a shirt with cut-off sleeves and a pair of leather chaps, that scarf is still in place. That would no doubt scare Red into action, however, so instead Vulpes says, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Red clearly doesn’t believe that. He takes the hand on his neck and all but shoves it into Vulpes’s chest. “You already have,” he hisses. His hand goes up halfway to rub at his neck before he catches himself and forces his hand down to his side again, fist clenching and unclenching. Interesting. “Now if you’ll excuse me, _Fox_.”

It’s not a matter of if Vulpes will excuse him. Red pushes past with more strength than Vulpes had expected of him, continuing his way down to the sniper’s motel room. The sniper- Manny Vargas- welcomes the courier with literally open arms, seemingly ignoring the discomfort on Red’s face. There is a glance of red eyes back in Vulpes’s direction, and Vulpes smiles.

The next time they will meet, months will have passed.

Vulpes is passing the gates of Camp McCarran when Red storms out, a bundle of rage and spite. The guards clearly have not recognized Vulpes. Red does. Vulpes keeps walking; he is not here for Courier Six, or for the spies he knows are in Camp McCarran. There is no reason for him to linger. Red follows, though, a few paces behind, until they are well out of sight of NCR patrols.

Red slams Vulpes into a nearby wall, and Vulpes is neither startled nor surprised by the action. The courier is surprisingly powerful, though, and Vulpes is lifted almost off of his feet. There’s still so much anger in those red eyes, sparking like an inferno, glowing like embers from the radiation in him that he still hasn’t treated. Or, perhaps, the radiation has simply left its permanent mark.

For the longest time, neither of them speaks. Vulpes lets Red hold him against the wall long after the anger has drained from those eyes, only to be replaced with a curious kind of hatred- old and hard like the sun-bleached bones of the desert. When Vulpes cups the back of Red’s neck, it elicits a full-body shiver. Red is a mess, twitching almost violently in his conflict; some part of him clearly wants to pull away, but some other base part of him is held by that hand on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing circles into the base of his head. It’d be so easy for them to kill each other right here. A twist would snap Red’s neck. A good shove forward and Vulpes has no doubt that Red has enough strength to break his ribs.

“You want to run from me,” Vulpes whispers, his little finger just barely dipping beneath the edge of that grey scarf. “Tell me why.”

Red pushes away and frees himself from Vulpes’s grip in the same motion, putting a couple steps space between the two of them. The anger is back in those eyes, but it’s different this time. Tempered. Embedded. “You really don’t know, do you?” Red asks, an edge of pain coloring his tone. He’s shaking, fists clenched tightly at his sides until his knuckles turn white. “I would tell you to ask Silus, but that’s not very possible right now. Or won’t be possible. Ever.”

So Red killed him. Vulpes is not surprised. Silus is sick, even as Legionnaires go. Effective, but sick. “But I am not Silus,” Vulpes argues. “I will not subject you to that.”

Red laughs, a deep, tired rumble in his chest. “You’re all the same,” Red sneers. “You might think yourself above Silus, but in the end, if Caesar gave the order you wouldn’t hesitate, would you?” The courier hooks two fingers into his scarf and tugs it down, and Vulpes tries not to be startled at the sight, tries not to avert his eyes. “Look at me, _frumentarii_ , and tell me that I do not have good reason to hate your kind.”

The scar runs deep, all the way around Red’s neck. It’s an ugly thing, knotted in places, made by the sharp edge of a collar digging too deeply into flesh. It’s old, no doubt, but from the way Red trembles with it bared the memory of it has to still be fresh. It explains everything- the scarf, the hatred, the knowledge of Latin. The _shame_.

Some strange, protective part of Vulpes wishes he had killed Silus himself. The feeling comes out of nowhere, and Vulpes is quick to stamp it down before it can become anything real. A step forward drives Red a step back. Another, and Red holds his ground, eyes meeting Vulpes’s. There’s a certain kind of fear in there, churning with the hatred and the anger, that sends a thrill down Vulpes’s spine.

When Vulpes places his hand on the back of Red’s neck this time, the courier lowers his head, muscles tensing. It’s clear that part of him still wants to obey, while the other part of him is still struggling for freedom. How easy it would be to bring him to heel, to make him _submit_.

“ _Pareo_.”

Red tries to struggle, tries to break free, and Vulpes tips the courier’s head up so that he can meet his eyes. Both of Red’s hands grip Vulpes’s wrist, clinging too tightly like he wants to rip the hand away but _can’t_. When Vulpes repeats the word, Red shudders, hands clenching until Vulpes can feel his bones creak. Red’s eyes close tight, his mouth open as he draws broken breaths. Vulpes moves his other hand so that he cups Red’s cheek and repeats the word one more time.

It’s a beautiful thing, watching Red’s will break. The trembling stops, every muscle going lax as he presses against the affection Vulpes gives. His hands remain on Vulpes’s wrists, but there is no strength in them now, no want to hold. Those half-lidded eyes hold the light of life, of strength, but not of rebellion or anger or hatred. A whine bubbles up from his throat when Vulpes’s thumb strokes his cheek.

“Please don’t,” Red begs even as he pushes back against Vulpes’s hand. There is the hiss of breath when Vulpes begins to draw away, but Red does not chase the touch. He just stands there, body lax and eyes full of longing. “I can’t go back, Vulpes,” Red says firmly, and Vulpes can see him rebuilding the walls behind his eyes. “I _won’t_ go back. Don’t try to make me, please. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

“Can you hurt me, _ignis_?” Vulpes dares. Red just smiles sadly, taking a step back, then another. Eventually he turns, walking away listlessly until he disappears into the night. Vulpes lets him go. There will be other times, he is certain.

And there are other times.

The Strip is busy in the early morning, people milling about in a great crowd. Red cuts through them like a shark through a school, a shock of red hair amid the dull and washed-out colors of the Strip patrons. There is still a dangerous edge to his shoulders, to his eyes. There is still a speck of blood on the corner of his mouth. Vulpes waits, lets Red get closer before he moves. Those burning eyes are on him in a moment, virulent, glowing red meeting calm, cool darkness.

Benny is dead. There is no doubt about that. Vulpes only wishes he had been there to see it. He is rarely there to see Red fight, mostly only seeing him taking shots from a distance- Red is accurate with a rifle in his hands, that much is certain. But with a knife in his hands, Red is a beast, a monster with smoldering eyes dressed in a human’s skin. Vulpes has seen it only once, watching Red wrestle a Legion assassin to the ground and kill him in a single motion. At one time, Vulpes would have thought four assassins for one man to be overkill. Now, four doesn’t seem like enough.

“The Desert Fox,” Red says as he draws close enough for Vulpes to hear. He is at least a half a head shorter than the _frumentarius_ , but it hardly seems to faze him in his glowering. They stare off for a few moments before the courier sighs, resigned, then turns and gestures for Vulpes to follow. “If we’re going to talk,” he says conversationally when Vulpes finally catches up to his side, “we might as well do it where we can be comfortable. Or, where I can be comfortable. I’m sure you can be comfortable in chains.”

Red laughs at his own joke. Vulpes says nothing.

The courier leads them out of the Strip and into Westside. The buildings here are hardly in good condition, the streets winding and many blocked off with rubble or clogged with people, but Red leads them confidently. They reach a building off the main crowd, mostly intact and door boarded up. A strong jump with a dumpster as a foothold gets Red through a second-story window. A ladder is lowered not long after.

The room is small, little more than four degenerating walls housing a mattress and a few metal boxes so filled with _stuff_ that some can barely close. “My humble abode,” Red calls it as he flops onto the mattress and digs through the metal box of drugs next to him. “For now, at least. I might have to move if you decide to tell all your Legion friends about this place.”

Red looks up when he realizes Vulpes hasn’t moved from the window. He has a belt around his arm and a needle of Med-X to his skin, but he sets them both aside carefully. “Vale, I’m not going to kick you out of the window if that’s what you’re worried about,” he assures. “It’d be funny, probably, but it’s also kind of a long drop onto broken concrete and that would probably really hurt. We’re not Legion and ex-Legion in here. We’re Vulpes and Red.” Vulpes nods slowly, and Red’s face breaks into a toothy grin. “Now drag the ladder up before someone on the street figures out this is where I’m staying. I’m not the best of friends with the gangs around here, you know.”

Vulpes turns to drag the ladder up, words he should be saying heavy on his tongue. Caesar has sent him here for a reason, after all. But some possessive part of Vulpes is howling against the part of him that wants to obey. That possessive part of him doesn’t want to give Red up, doesn’t want to see another person touch him, doesn’t want to see another person break him.

A grunt from behind almost startles Vulpes into dropping the ladder he’d so carefully rolled up, and he turns to see Red tearing the empty needle of Med-X from his arm and carefully bandaging the spot with a strip of cloth. His arms are not battered enough to suggest substance abuse, but the sight of Red using still makes Vulpes’s stomach turn. His attention doesn’t go unnoticed: Red meets his eyes with a sad smile, his hand flexing to get the blood flowing properly.

“I’m just using it out of necessity, Vale,” Red comforts, rubbing at his shoulder. “I’m not addicted. Just got a new tattoo, and it’s still a little sensitive. I think beating the living shit out of Benny might have agitated it.” As if to prove himself, Red turns a bit and rolls his sleeve up all the way. Not all of the ink is visible, but enough of it is: in black lines, a fox dances in flames. Vulpes wants to reach out and touch, but he is not sure what is allowed. This is Red’s territory, and it is by the courier’s grace that Vulpes is allowed here at all.

But Red keeps the sleeve up, stares at Vulpes pointedly, invitingly. The skin is slightly raised beneath Vulpes’s fingers, slightly inflamed, but the lines are clean and neat and Vulpes has to wonder what kind of steady hand must have drawn this on Red’s skin. Jealousy flares in his chest at the thought of someone else touching Red, but he tamps it down. Red is not _his_. For now, Red belongs to the Wastes. Soon, he will belong to Caesar. There is little room for Vulpes in that equation.

_We are not Legion and ex-Legion here,_ Vulpes reminds himself, pushing the shirt back a little more so that he can get a look at the other marks painted across Red’s skin. _We are just Vulpes and Red_. His fingers dance across various lines, black and stark against the skin. Some are old, stretched by time and growth and marred by small scars. Others are newer- not as new as the inflamed lines on the shoulder, but new enough for the ink to still feel fresh in the courier’s flesh. His hand dips beneath the shirt as he navigates by touch alone, wondering at the swirls and strokes. A little further, and he feels the edge of something that makes them both pause.

Slowly, cautiously, Vulpes moves behind Red and begins to push up his shirt. The scars are old and distorted, only barely raised and identifiable only by the change in texture; Red’s skin is smooth and soft, but does not normally have the plastic-like feel of these scars. They crisscross Red’s back in clusters of four apiece, creating a latticework of old wounds that can be only from one source.

Lashes. Many of them, when Red was a younger man. Red doesn’t draw away when Vulpes flattens his palm against them, but he does tense, as though the memory of these marks is still present in the fore of his mind. Vulpes feels the irrational need to apologize. It is not his hand that caused these. He might have been still a recruit when Red received them. But the sight of them still fills Vulpes with an indescribable _sadness_ , a want to _apologize_ , as though that would somehow make it better.

“Caesar’s own hand, right in front of my mother,” Red says, reaching around to lay his hand over Vulpes’s. It cannot be a comfortable position, but Red does not move away. “My father tried to escape, left us behind. He was killed, slowly, and fed to the dogs. Caesar said I should be grateful that I only received the lash, that I wasn’t put down like my father.”

Vulpes stretches his other hand over the back of Red’s neck, presses his thumb into the base of the courier’s head, and Red bows. It’s a beautiful show of submission, but the knowledge of how it was trained into him almost makes Vulpes sick. He wraps both his arms around Red’s waist, presses himself against the courier’s back and maneuvers himself so that his mouth is next to Red’s ear, so that he barely has to whisper when he asks, “Why do you trust me?”

When Red laughs it’s rough, harsh, like it is torn out of his throat. He presses back against Vulpes’s chest, a fine tremble racking him as he does. “I want to think that there might still be some good in you,” Red whispers fiercely, hands moving to cover Vulpes’s. “I want to believe that, underneath everything that the Legion has beaten into you, you’re a good man. I _know_ you’re a good man, Vale. I know that you _can_ be good. You can be kind and gentle and _wild_.” Red laces their fingers together. His trembling has evolved into full-body tremors in his emotional high, and Vulpes wants to tell him to stop, to come down, but Red’s words have him off balance.

“I just want to believe you can still be free,” Red whispers with a kind of finality that makes it feel like he’s saying goodbye. Vulpes hugs Red a bit tighter. He doesn’t want to let go. He doesn’t want to say goodbye. He doesn’t want to give this up.

Caesar’s Mark suddenly feels very heavy in his pocket.

They’re noses bump when Red turns his head, and Vulpes suddenly realizes how very close they are to one another. Red’s eyes are half-lidded, glowing ever so faintly, filled with sorrow and _love_ in equal measure. It’s a sobering thought, to know that Red _loves_ him. To know that Red adores and respects him in the same way that Vulpes has come to adore and respect Red.

Red kisses him, softly, gently, and suddenly the very thought of chaining Red up again is revolting. This kiss is chaste, just a tentative press of lips, as though Red isn’t entirely sure what he’s doing, where the boundaries are. Vulpes is sure, though, and when he pushes back Red whimpers against his mouth, let’s Vulpes’s tongue past with little resistance. He does not let Vulpes plunder without a fight, of course- that is simply not Red’s nature. But the struggle for dominance is just a show. When Vulpes bites down on Red’s bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, Red moans, lets go, lets Vulpes plunder as he pleases.

For all Red gives, Vulpes tries his hardest to give back. He learns all the sensitive spots, all the places that make Red twist and squirm; he also learns all the places to avoid, the places that make Red tense like a frightened pup. He learns that a heavy kiss to the dip of Red’s collarbone, to the curve of the courier’s shoulders, is more than welcome, but anything against his neck is not so. He learns that Red is more than happy to be bitten harshly, jerked just on the side of pain, pinned down by Vulpes’s greater weight, but will go still as a startled mouse when his wrists are held together.

He learns that Red looks best beneath him, skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat as Vulpes fucks him long and slow. Red is not at all soft, bone and muscle and sinew. The desert is a cruel mistress, and Red shows all the signs of being in her service; his skin is sun-touched, tanned how Vulpes has never managed, littered with small scars and marks and little wounds that had never seen proper treatment.

When Red comes, head pressed into Vulpes’s shoulder as he cries out the fox’s name, voice like sandpaper from all the screaming he’s done, Vulpes isn’t certain he’d ever seen a creature so beautiful.

Both of them spent, they lay tangled together for what feels like the longest time. Vulpes curls himself around Red, tucks the courier protectively to his chest as he runs a hand through those vibrant locks. He doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t want to sleep, for fear that this moment will be over, and that they will never be able to have this again. Red himself seems content to bask in their shared warmth. His eyes are closed, his breath is steady, and yet Vulpes finds it hard to believe Red is asleep.

He takes a chance, clasping Caesar’s Mark very cautiously around Red’s neck. It looks wrong there, bright and glimmering against the present scar. Vulpes wants to take it off, to throw it away, but he knows that this might be their only chance. Vulpes leans in to press a kiss to Red’s forehead, murmuring apologies against the skin as sleep overwhelms him.

“I’m not going back, you know,” Red whispers, reaching up to flip the golden token between his fingers, but Vulpes is already too far gone to understand the implications of those words.

Red is gone when Vulpes wakes, and everything is gone with him. Tucked into one of the boxes like Red knew Vulpes was going to open it is a necklace, the pendant made of strange black steel that shimmers with the colors of the rainbow when Vulpes twists it in the light. On the back is a messily engraved symbol, two dragons chasing each other’s tails, that Vulpes is certain means _something_ , though he isn’t sure what that meaning is supposed to be. Beneath it is a note scrawled in messy yet elegant handwriting.

Vulpes, with Red’s token hidden beneath his uniform, will read the note at least a hundred times over the next few months. There’s not a lot to be said, on it, about it. It’s an apology. It’s a suggestion. There will be more than a few times when Vulpes is tempted to throw it into the fire, stupid pendent with it. He never does.

During this time, Vulpes will lose a good half of the _frumentarii_ , rumors pouring in all the while. The rumors are… disturbing, to say the least. There is a sudden surge in Ranger activity, and the Legion are paying for it. Worse is the word on the wind of the Rangers’ strange new member. Dressed like any other Ranger, they say he wears a silver-gray scarf stained with the blood of his kills. They said he wields a rifle with deadly accuracy. They say that, with a knife in his hand, he fights like a deathclaw.

They call him the Reaper.

Caesar is quick to respond to the threat, as always, but by the time they are even aware of the danger it is already far too late. Vulpes loses almost all of his eyes in NCR territory, is forces to rely on the sporadic words of his few less trustworthy informants. The lack of knowledge is perhaps the most terrifying thing; Vulpes is certain a storm is brewing, about to break, but he has no idea when and where.

And when the storm does break, no one is prepared. By the time the alarm is sounded, the Rangers are already well into the camp, a trail of dead and incapacitated bodies in their wake. Vulpes almost runs right into a group of them stepping out of his tent. He is as quick as they to respond, but there is three of them and only one of him, and even with his skills he cannot hope to fight armed with only his ripper.

“Move on, boys!” comes a soft order, the voice distorted by the ever-present gasmask of the uniform but still eerily familiar. “There’s too much ground to be covered to waste all three of you on one _frumentarii_. I’ll handle him. You guys get back into the fight.”

The Rangers part like shadows for the light as he steps forward, disappearing further into the camp. There might be screams of pain and fear as they go, but Vulpes is distracted by the Ranger that removes his mask before him.

“Vulpes Inculta, greatest of Caesar’s Legion, I thought I told you to run,” Red says mournfully, frowning as he tosses his mask aside and draws his combat knife in the same motion. The black steel shimmers with the colors of the rainbow in the light of the fire behind him as Red spins it, casually, as though they’re having a friendly chat and not about to fight to the death. “I haven’t regretted a single kill since stepping past that gate,” Red says, and Vulpes can hear the pain beneath the conversational tone.

Vulpes leaps forward before Red has the time to say anything else. He doesn’t have much hope of winning this fight; Red has been trained by the desert, and, though his style is far from refined, it is brutally effective. At this point, Vulpes is counting on some kind of lingering affection, some remaining love that might make Red hesitate.

“I gave you a chance to get out,” Red growls, trying to pin Vulpes down between his thighs. Vulpes pushes back, flipping them over in the sand, and they tumble about until Vulpes ends up on top, knife to Red’s throat.

“You should have known I wouldn’t,” Vulpes points out. He doesn’t have the chance to say any more as Red surges forward, knocking the knife away from his throat and out of Vulpes’s hand and throwing the man a good few feet away in the same movement. There’s a grin on his face when Vulpes scrambles to his feet.

“Yeah,” Red says, blood beading up from his split lip as his grin becomes more of a display of sharp teeth and wicked incisors. He throws his blade straight down so that it buries itself to the hilt in the dirt next to his foot. “Yeah, I should have.”

Vulpes isn’t at all prepared for the Red’s sheer strength when the courier- courier, Ranger, Reaper- tackles him and tries to pin him to the dirt. He puts up a worthwhile fight, though, and by the time he’s stuck on his stomach, arms locked fast behind his back, Red’s whole weight bearing down on him knife to the back of his neck, he’s left a few marks that he’s sure will linger. But he’s done. He can’t win, and he doesn’t have the energy or the will to try anymore. All he can do is close his eyes and wait for death.

It never comes. Red lets out a shuddering breath as he lets Vulpes free and stands, stumbling a few steps away. When Vulpes manages to push himself into a kneeling position, he sees Red sitting against the pole of a tent, eyes on the sky. There’s a long scrape high on his cheekbone that’s bleeding pretty badly, and the color seems so much more prominent against Red’s sun-kissed skin than it should be. It’s then that Vulpes realizes both weapons are closest to him. He could end this now. He _should_ end this now.

“You asked me, once,” Red whispers just loud enough to be heard, voice hoarse with emotion, “if I would be able to hurt you.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I guess you have your answer.”

The knife is so heavy in Vulpes’s grip he can swear that it’s made of lead. Every step towards Red seems to take more energy than Vulpes has. Red smiles, eyes closed, head tipped back against the wooden support. Vulpes can just see the edge of the scar over where his scarf has come loose, and suddenly he can’t take another step.

A shout startles Vulpes into dropping the knife. The Rangers are coming back down the hill, clearly victorious. Vulpes glances between Red and the approaching danger, unsure.

“Run!” Red hisses, his eyes but slits. “Get out of here, damnit! I’ll be fine, but go!”

And Vulpes runs.

Caesar is dead. The remnants of the Legion are scattered. New Vegas is independent, but no one is certain how long that will last with the NCR now controlling the entirety of the Mojave. Business is booming for the Mojave Express.

_Rap rap rap_.

The knocks are business-like, quick and even. Vulpes- Vale, as he’s called officially these days- hurries to the door. He wasn’t expecting a package, but that doesn’t mean that people don’t send him things from time to time. A woman in Novac has regularly sent him pies and casseroles since he saved her son from a pack of nightstalkers a couple months back.

The courier has his back turned when Vulpes opens the door, hands digging through his pack for something, hair and face obscured by the cap and scarf he wears. When he looks up, though, it’s impossible for Vulpes _not_ to recognize that face.

“I thought that was one of your names on the delivery board,” Red says with a grin, holding out the package to Vulpes. There’s a new scar high on his cheekbone, more of a splatter of little marks than a proper line, but his red eyes still glow with that familiar light. “Good to see you’re doing well, Vale. Can I come in?” He pushes past without waiting for an answer, box in one hand, other hand sorting through his bag. “I thought I had that form somewhere…”

The box clatters to the floor when Vulpes grabs Red by the wrists and tugs him into a fierce hug. Red makes a surprised noise in his throat, but hugs Vulpes back all the same. “I missed you too,” Red murmurs into Vale’s shoulder. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “I hope that package wasn’t fragile.”

Vale laughs, and for the first time in his life he feels _free_.


End file.
